


The Boy Who Cried Murder

by Emilybells



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hitchcock, Hospital, Murder, Rear Window
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:35:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilybells/pseuds/Emilybells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s sudden affection towards Sherlock somehow sends his friend to the hospital, where he’s kept under surveillance for several days. During his stay Sherlock witnesses a Rear Window-esque murder and, of course, no one believes him. (Pre-season 3.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“…said they didn’t know whom did it, but—”

Sherlock halted in the middle of a sentence and got a strange expression on his face. John curiously looked his friend over. “You okay, mate?”

“Who,” Sherlock whispered.

“Who what?”

“It should’ve been who and not whom. Oh, God, I’m an idiot.” Sherlock put his head in his hands.

John had to bite his lips together to keep from snickering. “I really don’t think using ‘whom’ wrong means you’re an idiot.”

“For normal people, maybe! But I know how to use it, and I messed up.” Sherlock groaned, slumped across the kitchen table, and went limp. “Leave me here to die.”

The doctor couldn’t help it—he burst out laughing.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said.

John doubled over and clutched his stomach.

“Shut up,” Sherlock repeated.

“I have to put this on my blog,” cackled John. He then proceeded to do so, after which Sherlock refused to speak to him in favor of stealing John’s laptop, curling up on the couch, and leaving a sassy comment on the post.

John sat beside him and pointed at the screen. “Shouldn’t that be ‘its’ and not ‘it’s’?”

Sherlock stayed still for a very long time. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Get out.” When John didn’t obey immediately, Sherlock chased him off of the couch by wiggling his toes up the other man’s jumper. As soon as the space was free, Sherlock stretched out along the entire piece of furniture, rolled onto his stomach, and buried his face in a cushion.

“At least give me my laptop back,” John said.

Sherlock closed it and shoved it under his own crotch in response.

“You are a child.”

Unfortunately for Sherlock, his subtle attempts to train John not to fear intimately touching another man were beginning to bear fruit. After only a few seconds of deliberation, John hefted Sherlock’s thigh up and wedged his laptop out from under the detective. He then let Sherlock flop back into place and returned to his own seat, flipping the computer open again.

He reread his blog's post and what Sherlock had responded with and gave another chuckle. Sherlock immediately leapt back onto his feet at this, shouting, “Stop it! It’s not even that funny!”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Piss off!”

But despite his best attempts to shut the man up, John was already well into his gigglefit and showed no signs of stopping. Eventually John had to pause and catch his breath, taking big gulps of air in and out along with the occasional wheeze. “I love you,” he sighed and rubbed the back of his hand against his eye. It wasn’t until John had completely recomposed himself that he noticed Sherlock was behaving oddly. Well, even more so than usual.

The detective looked sort of stiff, as if he were trying to hold perfectly still for a photograph, and his eyes were wide and unblinking. John waved his hand about with a concerned look. “Sherlock? Yes, hello, are you still with us?” The doctor glanced over the arm of his chair. “Good God, I’ve broken him,” John said to no one in particular.

Sherlock rocked back on his heels once, twice, and then tipped over not entirely unlike how a wooden board would, collapsing on the rug. Suddenly in a panic, John slammed his laptop shut and set it down on the nearest surface. He ran to Sherlock’s side and touched the other man’s face.

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John begged. “Are you alright? Can you breathe?”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath almost like he’d forgotten that was a thing he needed to do sometimes, and then his mouth opened and uttered a few random syllables.

“Your face is red. Are you hot? Do you feel feverish?” John gently cupped the back of Sherlock’s skull and bent to press his cheek against the detective’s forehead. Sherlock squeaked and went numb all over.

Despite his degree, John couldn’t seem to figure out what was the matter with Sherlock. Luckily the man was still breathing, but if he didn’t know better, he’d say Sherlock was currently mid-heart attack. With a look of grim determination John pulled out his mobile and quickly dialed 999.

-x-

“Well Mr. Holmes, the good news is your vitals all look okay,” announced a doctor who was obviously paid better than John. “Cause of the heart attack is still rather unclear, but it didn’t bring about any damage, so we can be thankful for that.” He glanced up from the clipboard he’d been holding to smile at Sherlock, who was currently lying in a hospital bed and wearing a matching hospital gown (both of which more than likely against his will). They had him hooked up to a heart monitor, which kept up a continuous stream of beeps as he breathed.

John was seated in a metal chair at Sherlock’s side. He placed a loving hand on the detective’s shoulder. “And don’t you ever give me a scare like that again,” he instructed.

But Sherlock didn’t relax just yet. “And the bad news?”

“We’d like to keep you here in order to survey your heart rate. Double check in case we missed anything and be sure that it doesn’t become an issue again. Once we see twenty-four hours of regular heart activity you’re free to go.”

Sherlock jolted upright. “I’m not your prisoner!” he objected.

The doctor shrugged. “We’d prefer it if you thought of yourself as our guest.”

“Guests are allowed to leave when they feel they’ve overstayed their welcome.”

“Sherlock…” John tried.

“No, I’m sorry, but as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing wrong with me and I will not be held captive just because some guy in a white coat wants to use me as a lab rat!”

The doctor gave John a knowing look like, can you do something about him?

“Sherlock, listen, this is for your own good,” John said sternly. “I won’t have you dying of something that could have been prevented by spending one night in the hospital, alright? Imagine how I’d feel.”

Sherlock pouted as hard as he could.

“Don’t give me that look,” John said. “I’ll bring some of your stuff over so you can entertain yourself, and then you’re going to be a good boy for the nice doctors for a full twenty-four hours, alright? And if nothing’s wrong I’ll come pick you up and we can get whatever you want for dinner.” John waited until Sherlock nodded reluctantly. “Good,” he said, and then he stood and pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s forehead.

The heart monitor promptly flatlined.

John gripped Sherlock’s hand, terrified, while the doctor yelled for a nurse to bring a defibrillator. The very next second, though, Sherlock sucked in a breath and his heart started back up just like normal. The doctor stopped and glanced between Sherlock and the heart monitor, giving the former a suspicious glare.

Sherlock’s face flushed pink. “W-What?”

“I see,” the doctor said vaguely. “Twenty-four hours, I insist.”


	2. Chapter 2

Thirty minutes after John left to bring him something interesting from the flat, Sherlock was flipping disgustedly through the hospital’s dozen or so television channels about sports when a familiar face walked in. She was a muscular Asian woman almost as tall as Sherlock himself, and for some reason she had traded her usual combat-ready attire for a modest nurse uniform.

"Guns?" Sherlock said, confused.

"You bet your arse," she grunted in return.

Sherlock stared at her brown hair, which was tucked under a feminine white cap. “Why is your hair all in an uppy fashion?”

Guns gave him the “I can’t believe you’re so fucking dumb” look that Sherlock got so rarely in everyday life. “Part of the job,” she said.

"But… why."

The woman glared at him. “This is all your fault,” she hissed. “Your damn brother is worried about you and your habits again. I’m gonna be babysitting you until you can get your shit together.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m clean,” he insisted.

"Tell that to Your Highness," Guns said. "Anyway, what I came here for is to tell you not to let anyone fucking know I’m your bodyguard and shit, alright? As far as you’re concerned, I’m a regular nurse who works at this hospital."

"Oh, really? And what should I call you?"

"Nurse Wretched."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Subtle. I like it.”

John entered the room carrying a reusable grocery bag in one hand. “Alright, the cabbie charged me for the time he spent waiting outside the flat, so you better be pretty fucking happy,” he said. “I wasn’t sure which books you were still in the middle of because you never put them away or use bookmarks, so I just grabbed as many as I could carry from off the table, as well as some DVDs I think you’d enjoy. I’m sure a nurse could help you figure out how to work the telly. As far as food goes I’ve got a couple bags of crisps and sodas, and here’s your wallet if you still want to take a trip down to the vending-“

He cut off mid-sentence upon noticing a third person in the room who was looming over him. “S-Sorry, I’m… I’m a friend. Are visiting hours still on?” John set the bag down against the wall but hesitated to step in further.

"Nurse Wretched," Guns said. "I’ve been assigned to keeping an eye on Mr. Holmes during his stay, as well as making sure that he isn’t bothered by… unwanted company."

"Unwanted company. Yes. Very good, Ma’am." John nodded vigorously.

"Ma’am?" snapped Guns. "That’s Sir to you, soldier."

John blinked in surprise. “Sir?”

"DID I FUCKING STUTTER?"

"N-No, Sir! Absolutely not!" He did a full 360 in place before deciding to excuse himself. "Well, that’s all I came for, so. I’ll just… take my leave… yeah. Um, Sherlock, you can text me if anything comes up, and otherwise… Bye!"

Sherlock gave Guns a disapproving look as John fled out into the hall. “Now why’d you have to go and scare him off like that?” he demanded.

"I’m a bodyguard, not an actress," she sneered. "I can look the part of ‘sweet and innocent nurse,’ but I sure as hell ain’t gonna play it."

Guns snatched up the goodie bag John had brought and tossed it onto Sherlock’s bed. The detective immediately began poking around at its contents with renewed interest. After only about a minute of this, however, he shoved the bag off onto the floor again and began to stand up.

"Hey now, kiddo," Guns interjected, stepping in front of him. "Just where do you think you’re off to?"

"What does it matter?" Sherlock shot back.

"It matters. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight from the minute you step out of this room until you crawl back into that bed."

"Even if I have to go to the loo?"

“Especially the loo,” Guns replied grimly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest before changing his mind and turning around again. “Never mind. I didn’t want anyone to see me in this stupid gown anyway.” He climbed back into bed and threw the sheet over himself with a huff.

Guns sighed. “What were you going to get from the gift shop?” she asked.

"Binoculars."

"Bino-whatever do you need binoculars for?” Shaking her head, Guns turned toward the door. “You know what, never mind. Just this once. And don’t make me regret it, you hear?”

Sherlock smiled back innocently. “Of course not.”

-x-

Guns must have made quite the impression on John, as he hadn’t returned to visit Sherlock that evening. At around seven, two actual nurses arrived to serve Sherlock his dinner, which he gave a distrustful once-over and then refused to accept. This spurred quite the controversy and ultimately ended in one of the nurses calling in the doctor from before, who threatened to diagnose Sherlock with anorexia. To which Sherlock replied by flushing his applesauce and orange juice down the toilet.

Eventually all the fuss did die down and Guns finally wandered off on her own. Sherlock welcomed the returned quiet and saw this as his chance to play with the pair of kiddie binoculars Guns had bought for him. Trying not to sigh at how small the shitty plastic toy was in relation to his adult-sized eyes, Sherlock held the binoculars up to his face and focused on an apartment building across from his hospital window.

A wide alleyway separated the housing complex from the hospital, but it stood at just the right distance for Sherlock to clearly make out twelve windows. Of these twelve a little less than half were covered by curtains and the remaining ones practically served as a display case for Sherlock’s viewing pleasure.

The detective could distinguish four, possibly five different flats on the opposite side of those windows. Sherlock inspected the first: a little girl in a blue gown was seated in front of a piano, practicing. Around seven years old, Sherlock thought to himself. Probably takes lessons, but something tells me she doesn’t enjoy it nearly as much as she pretends to.

A married couple appeared from another room, obviously having just been in an argument but quickly wrapping it up as soon as their daughter was within earshot. Sherlock watched with interest as they conversed for a minute more before the gentleman kissed his daughter on her forehead and then took his wife’s hand. The minute they exited the room, the little girl leapt up from the piano bench, forgetting to shut it, and scurried off into another area. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled up into a smirk. Nailed it.

Sherlock lowered the binoculars, rubbed at his eye, and then moved on to the next visible window. He could see a bedroom and inside of it two university students were making out atop the bed, barely dressed. Sherlock almost considered moving along to give them some privacy when someone else stepped into the flat, entering the adjacent room. Suddenly the young lovers erupted into an obvious panic. The female shoved a pair of jeans into the man’s hands and pushed him into a closet, shutting the door on him. She threw a hoodie over herself and tied her hair up before joining the other man in their sitting room and planting a kiss on his cheek.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. What a sly fox. Thinks she’s clever too - this sort of thing must happen quite frequently. Frequent enough to have an escape plan already set into motion, in any case.

Sure enough, the woman and one of her boyfriends disappeared into the restroom, which was exactly when the second boyfriend emerged from his hiding spot, snatched up a shirt from underneath the bed, and slipped out the front door just as the others returned.

Already bored of this storyline, Sherlock shifted his line of vision to a third window. On the other side of the glass, an older gentleman with partially greyed hair was seated on his couch and half-listening to the running telly. In his hands he was jotting something down in a newspaper, so most likely either sudoku or a crossword puzzle. This one lives alone, Sherlock thought to himself, eyeing a twin bed from another room that was half-hidden by curtains. Drinking habit, but nothing too serious… Other than that, perfectly average disgruntled middle aged man who works as an accountant or some other desk job.

Sherlock set down his plastic binoculars and let out a yawn. Several of the flats’ lights had already been shut off, cloaking their rooms in blackness. Sherlock had almost completely turned his attention away from the building complex when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Party of One letting another man into his living room. They were yelling about something. As the debate grew more heated, the guest finally lunged at his host, who quickly grabbed a knife from his kitchen counter and thrust it into the other man’s chest. He let go and stumbled backwards as the body flopped onto the floor and out of Sherlock’s sight.

Hair on the back of his neck standing up, the detective watched with renewed intrigue as the man took a good thirty seconds to process what had just happened. Taking a deep breath, the murderer pressed up against his living room window, glancing down at the alleyway below, and then flicked the overhead lights off.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was immediately on his feet and racing out of the room when he collided head-first into Guns. “What’s the big idea?” she snapped, knocking him backwards.

"If you don’t mind, while you lot were all too busy making a fuss about little old me, someone has just been murdered from only fifty feet away!" Sherlock explained quickly. "I saw the whole thing happen just out the window!"

Guns folded her arms. “And you were just about to barge into some poor man’s flat and, what, arrest him yourself?”

"That was the general idea."

"Don’t think I’ve forgotten the last time you pulled off a scheme like this," warned Guns. "It didn’t work when you tried to get out of the dentist appointment Mycroft scheduled for you and I swear to God it isn’t getting you out of this hospital any sooner."

"It was right over there!" Sherlock insisted. He rushed over to the window and tapped on the glass for Guns to see. "He was sitting in the lounge, watching telly when another gentleman came in. They got into a disagreement, it turned violent, and the next thing I knew one of them was lying on the floor with a knife stuck in his chest!"

Guns wrinkled her nose at this. “Knew I shouldn’t have gotten you those binoculars. People normally frown on peeping toms.”

"It was people watching, and if it hadn’t been for me there wouldn’t be anyone to witness the murder!"

"Murder. Right. Tell you what, Holmes: why don’t you phone the police, climb back under the covers, and get some shuteye. The sooner you prove to the doctors that you’re better, the sooner you get to go home, the sooner I’m relieved of duty."

Sherlock’s face fell. “You don’t believe me,” he accused. Guns lied that she did and helped him back into the hospital bed. At this the detective pushed her away with a disapproving glare. Guns shrugged, confiscated the kiddie binoculars, and then pulled up a chair just on the other side of the room’s glass wall to spite him.

With an exasperated sigh Sherlock whipped out his mobile and dialed 999. Sherlock had only just begun his story when he was put on hold, and after five minutes of waiting he finally hung up and called John instead.

-x-

John had just slipped into his pyjamas when his mobile began vibrating on his bedside table. “Funny,” he muttered to himself upon seeing Sherlock’s name pop up on its screen. “Normally prefers to text. Yes, hello?”

"John! I need you to come to the hospital straight away and sign me out."

"Not this again." John groaned and took a seat on the bed. "Twenty four hours, alright? That’s really not too much to ask. You’re almost halfway done as it is."

"Oh, don’t you start with me as well! Look, John, this isn’t for me. Just a couple minutes ago I witnessed a murder happen in the flat across the alley from my window. Had I been able to get over there right away perhaps… I don’t know, but the nurses wouldn’t let me leave, and I tried dialing 999 but they put me on hold and-"

John pinched at the bridge of his nose in annoyance. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, “have you ever stopped to consider that perhaps it’s the boredom talking again? Listen, promise me you’ll stay put and not cause any more trouble for the hospital staff, alright? I’ll stop by as soon as I can in the morning and we can talk about what’s really going on then. Alright, Sherlock?” Beat. “Sherlock? Sherlock, are you still there?”

But the other line had gone dead. Whether this was because Sherlock had gone into a moody fit and hung up on him or the phone call was simply disconnected, he had no idea.

-x-

With so much rattling around in his mind, Sherlock had difficulty sleeping that night. The uncomfortable hospital bed, ever-constant beeping from the heart monitor, and silhouettes of doctors and nurses continuously walking back and forth on the opposite side of his privacy curtain only added to his problem. When he finally did manage to get some shut-eye, it only lasted a couple hours before the hospital declared itself fully up-and-running and rendered any further sleep utterly impossible.

As promised, John did show up a little while after another fight with the nurses over Sherlock’s suggested meal plan. The army doctor stood at Sherlock’s bedside with folded arms and shook his head disappointedly as his flatmate grinned back at him.

"You made one of them cry," John finally said.

"And she tried to force soggy breakfast cereal down my throat. It was a rather fitting consequence, if you ask me."

John huffed. “Well I’m most certainly not asking you. And what’s all this uproar about anyway? When I signed in the doctor told me that you’re refusing to eat. They’re threatening to diagnose you with-“

"Yes, yes, I’ve already heard the speech, so spare me." Sherlock sat up in the bed and twisted to the side to crack his back. He let out a satisfied sigh before continuing. "Anyway, there are more pressing matters than force feeding me rubbish!"

"Is that what this is about? You don’t like the food so you’d rather starve yourself? How old are you, two?"

"John, please try to keep to the subject at hand. I’d hate to repeat myself. Now, as I attempted to inform you last night-"

"Perhaps I ought to pick you up a lunch myself? Save the nurses the trouble," John contemplated aloud.

"Stop rambling on about food, John! We have a murderer in our midst!" Sherlock smacked John across his head with a pillow to emphasize his point.

Said weapon was immediately confiscated and tossed aside by a less-than-amused John Watson. “Enough, Sherlock!” he shouted angrily. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on here. Whether it’s your heart acting up or your absolute boredom, doesn’t matter, you can’t just make up something ridiculous like that and expect all of us ordinary people to play along for your twisted amusement! There hasn’t been a murder, and as such, sending a squad of police into some poor man’s flat based off of the accusations of a madman will get us nowhere!”

"Are you upsetting my patient?"

John spun around to find himself face-to-face with Guns and immediately stiffened. “A-Absolutely not!”

"What was that, soldier?"

"NO, SIR!"

"Good. Then unless you have something else to bring Mr. Holmes, kindly get out of my hospital!"

Guns tried to keep from laughing as John scurried his arse out of the room and disappeared down the hallway. Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “He wasn’t bothering me that much, you know. It’s not like you believed my story either.”

"No, but I’m not trying to make you feel bad about it," Guns explained calmly. "Regardless of whether or not what you saw was real, it’s my job to keep you here until the doctor releases you this evening. You can chase after serial killers to your heart’s content after-and only after-that happens."

Sherlock made a face. “So you’re telling me that even though there’s a slim possibility I might be telling the truth you still won’t do anything about it?”

"Convincing myself that you’ve made the whole thing up does make that bit a tad easier to swallow, no?"

"You’re a horrible person."

"You should be happy, you know," Guns said, straightening her dress to take a seat. "There isn’t much you could do about it now. Just gives you something to look forward to once this little mess is behind us both. That being said, I’m simply doing the job for which I was paid. Please direct any and all complaints you have to your brother."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Oh, believe me, I fully intend to.”

His mood quickly improved, however, when John returned several hours later. His friend came bearing a sack lunch that he had packed himself, which meant a rather unimpressive peanut butter and jelly sandwich, several snack items thrown into ziplock bags, and an apple. Although it wasn’t Sherlock’s favorite, the meal certainly beat godforsaken hospital food, and he appreciated that John spent the five to ten minutes throwing it together just for him. In fact, the nearby nurses couldn’t have been more surprised to see the man accept the brown paper bag with a sincere ‘thank you’.

The two of them talked comfortably while Sherlock ate. It was an interesting change of pace, enjoying a meal while John was now the one simply providing company, but he’d already made a point of not eating anything since he arrived at the hospital. Not wanting to stir anything up, neither one mentioned their earlier disagreement regarding whether the murder had actually happened or not.

All was well until Sherlock opened up the ziplock containing several heart-shaped cookies. At first he’d assumed that John had gotten them from a box picked up at the market, but upon further inspection the detective realized that they were baked by hand. Sherlock removed one of them and held it out in front of his face. “Where did these come from?” he asked, already suspecting the answer.

John shrugged. “Oh, I actually made the batch last night. Found an easy recipe on Tumblr. It was just too quiet around the flat without your… whatever it is you do, and-“

But he was cut off by the sudden spasm Sherlock’s heart monitor seemed to go into. Eyes wide, John leapt to his feet and got out of the way as a flock of nurses hurried in. “I’m fine, I’m fine!” Sherlock insisted after about a minute, shooing them away with both hands. The monitor slowly regulated again and the room cleared.

Just before John left, a doctor informed him that the incident had just tacked on another twenty-four hours for Sherlock’s stay. The doctor kindly advised that John try to avoid doing anything unnecessarily adorable in that time. Sherlock protested by burying his face into a pillow and groaning as loud as he could until he ran out of air.


	4. Chapter 4

Being forced to stay that much longer than intended had put the consulting detective into a terrible mood. The hospital seemed even noisier and everyone in it more irritating than before, and Sherlock no longer held back when stating his opinions, which tended to keep the nurses at a more comfortable distance. Guns stopped by every half hour or so to make sure that Sherlock was still in his room, but otherwise left him alone.

Around sunset, Sherlock was minding his own business when something caught his attention from across the alleyway. The flat’s lights were lit as the suspect in question struggled about his living room with a black garbage bag large enough to carry a corpse. Coincidentally, that’s precisely what Sherlock suspected it was being used for. Realizing that the man was about to dump the body, Sherlock hardly hesitated before hurrying out of his room with his rolling heart monitor in tow and making a mad dash down the hall.

It was there that he ran into the lady from the front desk, who he was surprised to find away from her seat. “Oh, Mr. Holmes!” she exclaimed. The woman came off sounding a little frightened of Sherlock, and likely with good reason. The nurses’ gossip hardly painted a positive picture of him. “W-What are you doing out of your room?”

"Shhh!" Sherlock pressed the woman up against the wall and covered her mouth with his hand, sending a shifty glance over his shoulder. They both watched Guns stomp across the hallway several doors down. Chances were she had already figured out that Sherlock was out of bed and, once located, fully intended to bring down the wrath of God upon him. Guns stopped abruptly and sniffed at the air before snapping her head around to lock eyes with Sherlock, who let out a squeak of terror.

"There you are, Holmes," Guns said slowly.

Sherlock released the front desk lady, who scurried away from the scene as quickly as possible. “Yes, how observant of you. I was just… headed to the loo,” he explained.

Guns frowned. “Your brother’s a better liar. You were going to try breaking out, weren’t you?”

"Absolutely not!" Guns raised an eyebrow. "Okay, maybe a little bit. But I assure you that I have the best of intentions. Remember that man I mentioned before? The one in the building next to the hospital who murdered someone with a kitchen knife? Well, I have reason to suspect that he’s stashed the body into a garbage bag with the intentions of-"

"I thought we already had this conversation?" Guns interrupted sternly. "I don’t care if this hospital is being invaded by a medieval army, you are not to leave your room without my direct permission!"

"But this is important!”

"I’ll be the judge of that. Now quit being a little dick and get your arse moving."

Sherlock considered trying to make a run for it, but the bodyguard lost patience and stomped over to drag him to bed by his elbow. Sherlock held up his hands in surrender, and slumped down the hall back toward his room, with Guns marching along right behind him. The detective opened his mouth to say-

"No," Guns interrupted. "Whatever it is, the answer is no. Goodnight!”

With that, she left Sherlock in his room. He wasn’t alone, however; she pulled a chair up to the glass door and situated herself in it with her back facing him.

Sherlock threw himself face down on the bed with all the petulance of an angry toddler. He fumed with rage until he was too emotionally drained to care anymore, and then he pulled the covers up until all that could be seen were his eyes and hair.

"Why is everyone an idiot but me?" he asked his pillow. "Oh, of course, everyone agrees crimes should be investigated to their fullest until the perpetrator is apprehended… unless I’m the one doing the investigating! Then they’re like, ‘nah, this murder isn’t that important, I’m sure it can wait a few weeks so the body can decompose beyond recognition.’ And then they complain when nothing can be proven in court! Honestly!" Sherlock huffed and nuzzled into his pillow, which had now been deemed his new Only Friend. "Even John doesn’t believe me," he mumbled. "Can’t they see I’m dying here? My mind is rotting. I fear I’ll start talking to myself soon."

After a depressing round of glaring-at-the-wall, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to find Guns had not moved an inch. She had picked up a YA novel somewhere and was now engrossed in reading about a magical adolescent who falls in love and saves the world, judging by what Sherlock could see of the cover.

The detective looked back at the wall.

And the window.

-x-

The hardest part was gathering enough extra pillows and blankets from the cabinet a few feet away without drawing attention to himself. Once that was done, however, he arranged them in a vaguely Sherlock shape under the covers of his bed and disabled his heart monitor with a pen and a paperclip he’d found. Thankfully, the thing didn’t seem to have any kind of low battery warning, and he was able to climb out onto the window ledge with a bag of his clothes without alerting Guns.

The ledge was actually much smaller than it had seemed from inside. A lot windier, too. Sherlock had to have one hand on his hospital gown at all times to keep from flashing the cars driving by below. The man felt a nervous thrill go through him at the thought of falling, but damn it, he wasn’t a hardboiled detective for nothing, so he sucked it up and carefully began leaping from one ledge to the next. They were just far enough apart to make his jumps seem pretty impressive, and he wished he had his trenchcoat and a fedora and maybe a dramatic movie soundtrack. With violins.

He only slipped a couple of times, both of which made him eternally grateful that he wasn’t still attached to the heart monitor, because those damn doctors would insist upon keeping him until next Christmas. Within minutes, Sherlock made it to an open window several rooms down from his own, and stepped back inside the building with relief. He straightened his gown and wiped a bit of sweat from his forehead.

"What the hell," said the teenage girl whose window he just climbed through. She put her laptop aside and pressed a pair of glasses onto her face, gaping at him.

"Don’t freak out," Sherlock insisted.

The girl turned her eyes up and raised her arms toward the sky. “My prayers have been answered! Bless you! You truly are a benevolent god!”

Sherlock wondered if she didn’t belong in a psychiatric ward instead. “Sorry for bothering you,” he said, moving toward the door. “I’ll just be leaving now.”

"Wait, where are you going?" the girl demanded, suddenly alarmed. "Come back here and ravish me, handsome half-naked gentleman!"

Sherlock peeked out into the hallway. Guns was as he left her, totally oblivious to anything but her teen romance. The detective stepped back to close the door again and bumped into something. He spun around. The teenager’s hand was inches from his head.

"May I touch your hair?" she whispered.

"If you do, I’ll bite you," he hissed out between clenched teeth.

The girl’s mouth went slack with wonder. “I don’t know if I’m into that yet,” she admitted.

"Go to bed," Sherlock snapped. "And if you follow me, you might die."

The detective strolled out of the girl’s room and down the hallway away from Guns as casually as he could. He took the next turn, and the bodyguard didn’t even look up. As soon as he was out of sight, Sherlock broke into a sprint. He stopped at the nearest restroom to change into his own clothes, and then he made up his mind to attempt to walk right out the front door as if he were a simple visitor.

Sherlock was very proud of himself, as he was leaving. None of the staff gave him a second glance, and he got away entirely unmolested. As soon as his foot hit the sidewalk, however, he felt a sharp prick in the back of his neck, and his legs immediately decided they were taking the rest of the day off. As he collapsed, Sherlock managed to turn his head far enough to spot Guns leaning out of a window, peering at him through the scope of a rifle.


	5. Chapter 5

Once the drug had worn off, Sherlock awoke to find himself back in his hospital bed and, even more disappointingly, in a new hospital gown. He attempted to jerk upright, only to find his wrists had been strapped down at his sides by a pair of thick leather bands. The man yanked at them with little success and grunted out loud, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

"I don’t think they are kidding around anymore," someone said from his side.

Sherlock craned his neck and spotted a rather disgruntled John looming over him with folded arms. “You’re upset with me,” the detective observed.

"Bloody right I am!" John hissed back. "I’m told Nurse Wretched had to use an animal tranquilizer on you."

"Well, technically speaking she didn’t have to-"

"An animal tranquilizer! For the love of God, Sherlock, do you even realize how embarrassing your behavior has become for me? I was just sitting down to eat dinner when I get a panicked call from the hospital’s front desk demanding that I come down immediately and talk some sense into you! And of course they failed to mention that you’d be in an induced coma for the following two hours, so yeah, waiting around for you to wake up again was sure fun as hell!" John stopped for a moment to take a deep breath and calm down some. "I signed up to be your flatmate," he went on, "not your babysitter."

Sherlock looked away. “You’re being narrow-minded again,” he sighed. “You and everyone else in this damned facility.”

Neither of them spoke for some time. Finally John took a seat in the wooden chair beside Sherlock’s bed. “I suppose you’re going to say all this was because you were just trying to catch your infamous murderer red-handed,” he murmured.

"What does it matter? Regardless of what I say, no one believes me. Even you called me a liar."

"…Those weren’t my exact words."

Sherlock snorted. “May as well have been.”

John exhaled slowly. “What if I could prove it?” he asked.

"Pardon?"

"What if I could prove it," the man repeated. "That what you thought you saw didn’t really happen. Or at least not the way you think it did."

Sherlock met John’s eyes suspiciously. “How so?”

"Well. You wanted to march over to that flat and investigate yourself, did you not? Suppose I went in your place."

"You wouldn’t do that for me," Sherlock replied quickly.

"Hang on, let me finish," said John. "I’ll make a deal with you. If I sneak into that poor bastard’s flat and don’t find any cause for suspicion, then you have to promise me you’ll stop going on about what he supposedly did, and only do exactly what the doctors and nurses ask of you. No more talking back, no more refusing to cooperate, no more trying to sneak off on your own, got it?"

Sherlock mulled this over for a moment before responding, “And if you do find, say, the remnants of a lifeless body?”

"Then I’ll do whatever you ask of me in order to put this bloke behind bars."

"And you’ll sign off that I’m allowed to leave this place on the spot," Sherlock added hopefully.

"Don’t push it."

Sherlock frowned harder than John had ever seen him frown before. “It isn’t like this is going to solve anything. He was ready to dump the body hours ago, which you idiots likely let him get away with while I was unnecessarily drugged, and I doubt he’s going to have the still-bloody knife lying around in his dish drainer.”

"Well, there’s nothing to be done about that now," John said. "It’s this or waiting until you’re released to investigate on your own."

Pressing his tongue against the inside of his cheek, Sherlock glared for several seconds more before agreeing reluctantly. “Fine. I’d shake your hand, but seeing how-“

"Yes, yes, I’ve noticed," John said. The man stood up and walked over to the window at the room’s opposite end. John pulled open the curtain and peered outside. "Which one is it?" he asked.

"Third from the top. Right in front of you."

They both watched in silence as the man in question walked into his living room, fished around for a nearby coat, and then flicked off the overhead light and disappeared through the doorway. John glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock, who still said nothing. He looked back to the opposite building. The suspect suddenly reappeared from a back door at ground level. John watched with interest as he reached the end of the alleyway where it merged with the sidewalk. He clicked a button on his keys and got into a nearby vehicle before driving off.

With newfound determination, John made for the door. “Wait, you’re going right now?” Sherlock called after him. “Just like that?”

John either didn’t hear Sherlock or chose not to answer. Instead he stopped in the doorway for a brief moment before going back to Sherlock’s bedside table and pulling out the detective’s mobile. John placed the device in Sherlock’s right hand.

"Just in case," he explained.

"John."

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, who hesitated for a moment before saying, “Be careful.” John nodded and exited the room.

-x-

It occurred to Sherlock that he wasn’t entirely sure how John planned to break into the empty flat, but within ten minutes the lights came back on and sure enough, there was John, waving back at him like a berk. Sherlock wished he could reach the binoculars so as to keep a closer eye on his friend, but there was no way he could move his arms enough to pick them up, and they were just out of reach when trying with his mouth.

John walked back and forth through the flat for some time, peeking into closets, the fridge, and anywhere else he thought someone would hide homicidal evidence. At some point he gave up and called Sherlock, who had to put his mobile on speaker phone in order for them to hear each other.

“Place looks clean," John stated rather matter-of-factly.

"Well I didn’t suppose he’d make it obvious enough for someone like you to figure out in one quick attempt, but points for trying," Sherlock replied waspishly. "Now hurry back before he returns and you find yourself in a spot of trouble."

John chuckled. “Know what? I think I’m actually going to stick around for a bit, enjoy myself. Consider it a part of the whole ‘I told you so’ experience.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Please don’t.”

Ignoring him, John began fooling around with the suspect’s stereo, and suddenly Sherlock could hear the YMCA song coming through the phone’s receiver with a horrible, crackling quality. He considered hanging up, but was distracted by his flatmate, who had begun enthusiastically performing the number’s traditional dance in front of the stranger’s living room window. As the dancing became increasingly ridiculous, Sherlock struggled to decide whether he was amused or annoyed.

Eventually John grew bored of this and began fumbling about in the cupboards, where he found what looked like a bag of crisps. Still leaving the call connected, he set his mobile down on the coffee table and got comfy on the couch. Sherlock rolled his eyes and was about to hang up when he spotted the headlights of a car pulling in just outside his line of vision. Sure enough, the man who lived there was back from his quick errand, struggling to carry four paper grocery bags and talk into his own mobile’s wireless headset at the same time.

"John," Sherlock said, raising his voice in hopes of being heard over the music that was still blasting. "John, I don’t mean to alarm you, but your host is arriving sooner than anticipated. John! God damn it, John, are you listening to me?!" Starting to panic as soon as the third party vanished through the side door, Sherlock pulled against his bonds as hard as he could. "John!" he kept yelling into the receiver.

At long last the doctor seemed to become aware of his distress and clicked off the radio. “Sorry?" he asked, holding the mobile up once more. "Did you say something?”

"Yes! John, I need you to please put things back the way you found them and vacate the area immediately! Mr. Whatshisface is on his way up right now!"

"Oh, shi-" John cut himself off by disconnecting the call, and shoved the phone into his back pocket. Fists clenched, Sherlock watched nervously as John hurried to turn out the lights. The apartment went black, and mere moments later, the murderer entered the room, turning them on again. John was nowhere in sight.

Noticing he’d been holding his breath for some time now, Sherlock finally exhaled.


	6. Chapter 6

The consulting detective was, of course, unable to deduce the sequence of events in its entirety from where he was located. John had only just begun to reach for the doorknob when he heard conversation and a key being jiggled into the deadbolt. John frantically backpedalled into the other room, dove to the ground, and rolled underneath the man’s bed, bag of crisps still clutched to his chest.

On the upside, John was still convinced that this man was innocent. It seemed that the doctor had no other choice but to wait around for the stranger to stop by the loo or go to bed, at which point John planned on slipping out unnoticed as quickly as possible. Making sure the volume was on its lowest setting first, John whipped out his mobile again and texted Sherlock.

Wasn’t fast enough Dx -JW

John listened to the stranger putting away groceries in the kitchen for a while. Entirely unconcerned for his own safety, the doctor turned onto his stomach and peered inside the bag of crisps, disappointed to realize he had crushed most of them during his hasty retreat. Regardless, he took out half a crisp and ate it. His mobile lit up again and he looked down to read Sherlock’s response, which came in two texts, one after the other.

You’re still inside? What were you thinking! -SH

Also what the hell, is that supposed to be a smiley face? You’re not a teenage girl, John. -SH

John rolled his eyes and started to type out a response when a bright light came on from overhead, touching every inch of the room except for where he was. He could now hear half of the other man’s conversation and listened in shamelessly while enjoying the crisps he’d stolen.

"I’m tellin’ ya, Dan, the guy had it comin’," he was saying. "Of course it was an accident! No, it’s not like I meant to hurt the bloke. He just came bargin’ in, accusin’ me of stealin’ his girl out of nowhere! And all that with Tracy happened years ago, you know that!"

John’s eyes widened with realization and he stared at the man’s feet as he kicked off his sneakers and sat down on the bed above him. He had just placed another crisp into his mouth and, now worried about making a crunch noise, bit down on it in extreme slow motion.

"Nah mate, it was somethin’ else. Maybe he was off his meds, I dunno. Point is he came in here like a ravin’ lunatic and lunged at me! What else was I s’posed to do? It was me or him, and I’m tellin’ ya, at the time I was just thinkin’, ‘well it ain’t gonna be me.’ So that’s where I’m coming from." Pause. "Yeah, ‘course I remembered. I took care of the body, just like ya said. Didn’t leave a speck of evidence, even if someone did decide to come snoopin’ around, not that anyone would. I was real sneaky about it."

Licking another crisp and sucking on it, John erased the messaged he’d already started and rewrote it.

Um so I think you might be right about this whole murder accusation thing. I just heard an out of context confession. -JW

Sherlock’s answer was much quicker this time: NO SHIT. -SH

Hey, so if it came down to it, do you think I could take this guy in a fight? -JW

I’d rather not risk it. Hold tight; I’m going to try to get his attention. -SH

-x-

After sending his last message, Sherlock stretched his leg out as far as it would go and managed to undo the latch with his toes and kick the window open. The detective then sat up as far as he could and, hoping that he wouldn’t immediately alert the nurses in doing so, started yelling at the top of his lungs.

His throat soon began to hurt, and Sherlock was starting to consider giving up when the bedroom window across the alleyway was pushed up. “Hey! Shut it, you! It’s late!” the murderer yelled back, leaning out over the street.

"I know what you did!" Sherlock shouted, matching the man’s volume.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about!"

"I saw it from right here and I have it all on video! You won’t get away with it!"

The other guy didn’t respond, slamming his window shut instead. Just then one of the nurses came dashing in, demanding to know what all the ruckus was about. Sherlock apologized as the woman closed and locked his window, turned off his lights, and instructed him to go to sleep. After she left, the mobile Sherlock was still clutching tightly buzzed and lit up the now darkened room.

Great thinking! He went outside again and I was able to follow suit without drawing attention. -JW

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sherlock threw his head back down on his pillow. He closed his eyes, trying to relax, and waited for several minutes, until a man’s silhouette pushed open the room’s glass door. Sherlock’s smile was hidden by the total blackness. “John! I’m glad to see you made it back before things took a turn for the worse.”

"You said sumpthin’ about a video, mate?"

Sherlock’s face fell upon hearing this. As the stranger drew closer, Sherlock recognized him as the resident of the flat John has just been in. Even more alarming was that he was wielding a rather decently-sized kitchen knife. Sherlock gulped. “Yeah… about that. Do you think you could, I don’t know, set that down so we can talk this out? No? Because I’m warning you, I can and will scream if you come any closer with that thing. I could have a team of people in here within five seconds.”

The other man smiled crookedly. “Oh, but I think you’ll bleed out ‘fore anyone notices. Can’t scream with yer throat cut open, can you?” He took another couple steps closer, and Sherlock began to flail about in the hopes of somehow squeezing his large hands out of their prisons. The murderer raised his weapon slowly for dramatic effect.

As if on cue, Guns was suddenly in the room. The woman was built like an ox and didn’t hesitate before grabbing the murderer’s wrist, easily knocking the knife from his hands. Sherlock squinted into the darkness, trying to see what was going on, but from what he could tell it looked like Guns was winning this fight. By a lot.

Fluorescent lights flicked on once more, and John was now standing in the doorway, his mouth slightly ajar. At his feet lay the murderer, bloody and unconscious, with a rather pleased-looking Guns standing over him. Guns placed her hands on her hips, a triumphant look about her that, to be quite honest, was rather terrifying.

"I’ve missed something, haven’t I?" the doctor asked softly. "How do I keep always missing things?"

"Mycroft Holmes told me to keep an eye on his younger brother and deal with whatever stupid situations he gets himself into however I deem appropriate," Guns answered. "I figured a man I didn’t recognize coming at him with a knife qualified for a beat down."

John almost choked. “Hold up, Mycroft sent you? Does that mean you aren’t even a real nurse?”

Guns smirked. “A little slow on the uptake, eh, soldier?”

"Sh-shut up!"

"Look," Sherlock interjected, "it’s nice to see you two bonding and all, but considering an attempt was just made on my life, I don’t suppose I can be checked out early? Also, before I forget, I believe an ‘I told you so’ is in order."

-x-

Although John was unsuccessful in getting Sherlock released early (and Guns did little to help), this time he did remain at the detective’s side for the duration of Sherlock’s stay. As they approached their final minutes of captivity, Sherlock and John began counting down the seconds as if they were at a New Years party, anxiously awaiting midnight. At the 24-hour mark from Sherlock’s last heart attack, the not-couple cheered excitedly, and Sherlock was signed out of the hospital’s care as quickly as possible.

All ready to head back to 221b, Sherlock and John waited patiently on the corner outside of the hospital for a taxicab to drive by. John pressed his hands together for a moment before looking up. “Hey, Sherlock?”

"Mm?"

"About what happened earlier… I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. It’s just, given the circumstances, and how far-fetched the whole idea sounded, especially coming from you-"

"I get it," Sherlock interrupted. "You don’t have to feel like you owe me or anything."

"Oh, I don’t," John assured him. "I just… I wanted to make sure that we’re still cool. We are cool, right?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before putting on a slight smile. “Yes. We are… ‘cool.’”

The two of them stood in a tense, awkward silence for several seconds longer before John stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist in a tight, heartfelt hug. Sherlock instinctively responded with a high pitched squeak and went limp. Surprised by this, John let go and watched with an unamused expression as the detective flopped to the ground.

John pinched at the bridge of his nose. “God damn it, Sherlock!”


End file.
